The Highlander (27 page)

“I knew Gavin wasna in yer room,” Liam assured her. “He wouldna dare. I forbade him from bothering ye further, and he left.”

“Forbade?” Liam could tell she didn't like the word by the perplexed lethargy with which she said it. “If the earl went home, then who did you think…?” It took her mind two very quick seconds to put it all together and snatch her hand out of his. “You came to my
bedroom
looking for …
Andrew
? You kicked the door in because you thought your
son
was in here with
me
in the middle of the night?” She'd moved past perplexed to mystified, and Liam had to sort through his Scotch-muddled thoughts for something to say.

“Oh, my God.” She stood and turned away from him, retreating a few paces and wrapping her arms back around her middle in that protective gesture.

The loss of her comforting touch drove Liam to his feet. “Rhianna said ye'd both gone upstairs to bed at the same time. The two of ye had been avoiding me for days. When ye werena sneaking away together ye were whispering secrets. I didna ken at the time that it was regarding a wee beastie.”

She slowly twisted to face him, and Liam was glad he couldn't see whatever awful emotion her gaze contained. “So you thought I … Lord, I can't even say it.” Her hand flew to her forehead and dragged across it as though to wipe away the offending thought.

Liam groped for something, anything that might make her understand. “Andrew's sullen moods have driven away every governess he's ever had, and suddenly he started treating ye like ye'd hung the moon.”

“It's called fondness,” she hissed. “Affection. We can feel that, you know, without it being some kind of perversion.”

“I ken that.” He took a step toward her, and again she retreated. “But he's a handsome lad on the cusp of manhood who thinks of little else but women, and ye're young and damned desirable. Ye canna blame me for suspecting—”

“You had to feel a little more than
suspicion
to kick my bloody door in!”

Liam said nothing. At first because no one ever dared to interrupt him, and then because he couldn't ever remember hearing her curse. The lass was right, of course, he'd been quite a bit more than suspicious.

He'd been jealous.

“I should leave,” she whispered, her hand still resting on her forehead as though she were now afraid her mind would escape her if she let it.

Liam pinched the bridge of his own nose. He was turning a misunderstanding into a catastrophe. “Nay, I'll go, we'll discuss this in the morning.” They'd sort out the mess when he was thinking more clearly. Every emotion he had simmered right below the surface of his skin, some that he battled constantly such as lust, anger, need, and regret. Others he'd buried with his father, and he should wait until the light of day to sort through them.

And then there were these new foreign ones which needed to be inspected. Softer, tender, almost …

“No,” she lamented, bringing his attention snapping back to her. “There's no discussing this. I
have
to depart first thing. I cannot stay here any longer. Not now.”

Alarm seized him. “Ye mean, leave Ravencroft?”

“Yes, I mean leave Ravencroft.” She hurried to her wardrobe with stilting, uncertain steps, blindly reached in, and yanked down an armful of clothing. It was too dark for either of them to truly ascertain what color they were, but she didn't seem to care as she flung open the trunk at the foot of her bed and began to shove them in.

When she looked as though she'd return for more, Liam placed his body in her path. “Ye're staying,” he ordered.

She stepped around him. “If your opinion of me is so low that you think I could take advantage of a
child,
this will
never
work. I'll find a different situation.”

“I was…” He didn't want to say
wrong,
though he knew it to be the appropriate word. He trailed her to the wardrobe wondering how he'd managed to halt armies in their tracks, but this one wee governess refused to cooperate. “Ye're not leaving.” He tried a command, which in his book was a bit higher than an order. That ought to work.

“But I must.” She hurried away from him, thrusting her second armful into the trunk.

He shut the wardrobe and advanced on her. “I willna allow it,” he threatened. “Ye'll
remain
here in my employ, and that is my final word on the matter.”

She whirled around and stomped in his direction until they met in the center of the room beneath the silver gaze of the moonlight streaming through her window. She could have been the goddess Danu, her red hair billowing around her, her robe flowing with the force of her truncated movements.

“Don't you think for
one minute
that you can order me about like one of your subordinates.” She spoke slowly, enunciating her indignant words with abject clarity. “You may be a Highland laird, and you
may
be a marquess, but that doesn't give you one ounce of dominion over me, Liam Mackenzie.” Her breasts heaved with her increasingly forceful breaths. Her voice shook with anger and her pale jade eyes flashed silver with wrath and moonlight.

Something about her temper gave Liam the most excruciating erection he'd ever had. He stepped forward, wanting to reach for her, but for every move he made to close in, she took a step back.

“I might be afraid of you,” she confessed, her voice losing some of its fervency as he stalked her in the dark. “But mark me, I'll
never
cower to another man. I am my own self. I am a woman with free and independent will. I deserve to live for no one's whims and pleasures but my own, and I don't have to follow your commands.” Her back found the wall, and suddenly there was nowhere to go. Liam knew it. And so did the lass.

“Do what you will, you high-handed, imperious, overbearing brute, but if I want to leave, you'll not sto—”

Liam cut off her words with his mouth.

It was a movement born of panic and instinct. He hadn't been thinking. He just … couldn't
bear
to hear her say that she was leaving one more fucking time.

He'd kissed her before, and still he hadn't been prepared for the complexity of sweetness that he found on her lips. It inflamed him. It humbled him. It held him in a thrall he knew full well he'd never escape. So here he stood, a willing slave to his own desire. A helpless victim of the debilitating lust that flared in his loins and boiled through his blood. He was hard as a diamond, the cords and sinew at his hips rolling forward to press against the softness of her belly.

Liam would never have enough of her, not if he fused their mouths for an eternity. Each drugging sweep of their lips only intensified his hunger. Nibbling at her lower lip, he sampled the flavor of her skin, then licked at the seam of her full mouth, silently requesting admittance into the honeyed heat he was certain to find inside.

He swallowed her shocked gasp and plundered her with his tongue as though she were a lifelong conquest. Digging his fingers into her ribs to keep from taking what she did not offer him, he deepened the kiss, using his tongue to convey what he could not find the words to say.

She
wasn't the only one who was afraid. Liam was
terrified
.

Of losing her.

Of loving her.

And at this moment, he was in mortal danger of both.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

The flavor of Ravencroft's lips pushed Mena past shocked to absolutely witless. She wasn't pliant so much as thunderstruck. She didn't kiss him back, but neither did she push him away.

The sweet burn of whisky on his tongue caused her jaw to sting with overwhelming thirst as her mouth flooded with moisture. She closed her lips to swallow convulsively, and instantly his hands were there, his thumbs dragging the corners of her mouth open so he could thrust his slick tongue back inside.

A growl caught in his throat, quickly turning into a groan. The calluses of his palms abraded her skin as he cupped the side of her face, lifting her to give him better access.

He might be a little drunk, but Mena knew
she
was on the edge of pure, carnal intoxication.

It was impossible to tell what was harder, the wall behind her, the man trapping her against it, or the length of his sex pulsing as hot as a branding iron against her belly. His arousal was as incomprehensively large as the rest of him, enough to send her thoughts scattering to the most indecent places. Its purpose unmistakable, his desire inescapable, Mena found herself rocked by sensation so thoroughly that she feared she would lose consciousness. Dizzying chills racked her frame until she trembled as though she'd been left out in the bone-chilling cold. But it was liquid heat spreading through her, settling in her core and causing a rush of alarming moisture to pool there.

She'd been angry, hadn't she? Mortified, hurt, and … leaving? She'd been afraid. Should
be
afraid. This was wrong, though she couldn't at all remember why. Somehow Liam Mackenzie was able to dissolve her ever-churning thoughts into a puddle of nothing. With one kiss, he'd morphed her into a creature as instinctual and primal as he, with just as much difficulty controlling her most secret and basic of needs.

The sharp scent of his soap and the musk of something darker, earthier, invaded her senses and Mena breathed it in, making it a part of her. His kiss gentled from bruising to merely relentless. His movements against her lips were urgent and greedy, but strangely unhurried as he penetrated her deeply, searching the recesses of her mouth with a tender sort of aggression.

Mena waited to feel the inevitable revulsion that came with intimacy, the forbearance, the distaste and apprehension. As hands trailed down the fragile skin of her neck, evoking shiver after shiver, she couldn't believe those terrible emotions never found her. It was only anticipation that coursed through her as his powerful fingers curved down her shoulders.

“Kiss me, Mena,” he moaned against her mouth, his hot, sweet breath fanning over the moisture on her lips. “Touch me. Teach me to keep the demon at bay.”

She could only see the whites of his eyes in the dim light, circling the obsidian of his pupil and iris in such a way that truly seemed demonic.

With trembling fingers, she reached up to softly test the shape of his masculine jaw. Bristle scraped against her fingertips as they explored the raw, hard features that she'd always wanted to study, but didn't even allow herself to look at for too long, lest she be lost.

How fierce he was all the time. How strong and capable and remote he had to be. Never showing weakness, never allowing vulnerability.

Except in this moment. With her.

He turned into the press of her fingers, seeking more of her touch as a primitive sound escaped him on a shaken breath.

She
was
lost. Never in her life had she been able to turn away a wounded animal.

Liam Mackenzie was no different. The scars he carried upon his soul were horrid and deep as those on his back. Some of the wounds remained open and bleeding, poisoning his chances at happiness or peace.

What a tragedy they both were. Bruised and beaten by those who were supposed to have loved and protected them. Tossed upon a sea of cruelty, and seeking refuge in this unforgiving world. Seeking sanctuary, but hoping for redemption.

Shivering and impassioned, Mena lifted to her toes, pressing her lips against the hardness of his mouth. This time, her tongue met his with welcoming heat as she dragged her hands down the swells of his chest and around his broad torso to wrap what she could of his big frame in her embrace. Her hands searched for a place to settle, light as moth wings at first, and then stronger as she clutched him to her.

A shudder coursed down his spine as she smoothed her fingers over the powerful stretch of his back. The wide muscles flinched and flexed beneath her touch and he groaned his approval into her mouth. She noted the scars, but only the man beneath them registered to her tantalized senses.

His hunger became a tangible thing, escalating his breath until it heaved against her. Hands were everywhere, cupping her breasts, shaping them as the tips instantly hardened and ached against his palms. Testing them with gentle, insistent pressure, molding until she could no longer think past the sensation gathering there.

A whimper of surprise escaped her as her hips tightened and jerked against a stab of need she'd not even thought herself capable of. Wet and swollen, her body called to him.

And his answered.

Chilly air kissed her ankles as his hands gathered her filmy robe until it parted. His knee gently pressed between her legs as he ravaged her with deep, drugging kisses. His solid weight pinned her in place as her robe gave way and he replaced it with his body.

The marquess swallowed her gasp as she realized his kilt had also ridden up between them, and with one smooth and sinuous movement, he'd split her legs and pressed the flesh of his naked thigh against her exposed sex.

He uttered a curse in a language she didn't know as he moved against her, replacing her flare of panic with one of pleasure. Suddenly the hard muscle of his leg was also drenched and slick as he undulated again, creating a strange and delicious friction. His shaft pressed against her hip as he rocked against her. She knew he wanted it inside her, that if she opened to him, he'd sink every hot inch as deep as he could.

“Wait,” she said. Or perhaps didn't say, as he never let up the pressure of his mouth, even as her lips moved. She wanted him to stop. She
never
wanted him to stop.

Then his hand was there, clever fingers slipping into the wet cleft and touching a place no one had ever before paid attention to. He somehow ignited frenzy into her blood with infuriatingly slow strokes. A curious heat unfolded in her core and quickly caught into a blaze of sensation.